Thorin's Return to Shire
by kkolmakov
Summary: Thorin takes his future Queen to a journey to meet Bilbo Baggins. The stupendous news are to be shared and invitations for festivities delivered. *No infringement* Second complete multi-chapter after "Thorin's Morning After", part of the same universe as "Thorin's Spring". For clarification refer to "Thorin's Timeline" (overview of the series). Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

The journey is tiresome, stretching seemingly to no end, rain drenching the small company of Dwarves, soaked cloaks heavy, hoods low, covering bearded faces. The cold is bone-shattering. Ponies tread with difficulty through the sludge of the Great East Road, slipping on puddles and mud, their heads dropped to the ground. The dreary landscape of the Lone-lands makes the Dwarves even more sullen, only the promise of warm fire and fine mead of Bree keeping their spirits. It is late evening but the King decides to push forward, camping in the treacherous weather out of question. With your small build and lack of Dwarven endurance you are tormented more than others, clenching your teeth and silently suffering through clanking teeth, despite of additional layers of furs covering your shoulders. The cold is defeating you, and you nod off without noticing. You are sliding of your pony, and the strong hand of your King secures you in a saddle. "Just a few more hours, zundush," his voice shakes you out of your lethargy, and you shiver. "I hope your Hobbit is worth all this," the King chuckles. "Hey Dwalin," he is addressing the menacing looking warrior, "Is visiting Master Baggins worth this accursed calamity of a journey?" The terrifying warrior who struck awe in you from the start but who surprisingly developed a soft spot for you grumbles from under his hood. "He better be," he is shaking his tattooed head, "He will feed you fairly, Barazninh, that is for sure," he is chuckling from fond memories, "and his pipeweed is dandy". Baraznihn, The Red Lady, the tribute to your red hair, is his respectful appellation for you that you are very fond of. Your not being a Dwarf, with the claim on the King's heart did not set a good beginning to your relationships with Thorin's closest lieutenant, but the events of your first winter in Erebor turned him in your most loyal supporter. Your shared willingness to fight and die for the King as well as ferocity in battle bonded you two. Thorin is often laughing that in a situation when Dwalin's allegiance would have to be divided between you two, he himself stands no chance. "Do you wish me to walk on your side?" the fearsome Dwarf offers in a soft tone. You graciously thank him but decline. The landscape finally seems familiar, memories from two years ago coming back to you. Given it was in summertime, you stayed in Bree for three months, exploring the surrounding plains. Thorin and other members of the company are also lost in memories, reminiscing of the beginning of their Quest for Erebor. You have heard the stories but you still have not had the privilege to meet the fourteenth member of the company. After your stay in Bree, you were in a hurry to return to Erebor, your visit to the Shire postponed. The hobbit intrigues you to no end. Those few hobbits you have met in your life haven't stricken you as adventure seeking. The Honourable Thief and Barrel Rider whom your King holds so dear is awaiting your visit, but the weather does not seem to approbate.

You arrive to Bree just before dawn, your King after all carrying your sleeping form in one of the rooms in the inn. You do not remember being undressed and put under the covers on a bed too long for you. That is where you wake up around lunch time, well rested, though slightly disoriented. The room is spacious and sunny, clean large windows filling it with light. You cloak is stretched on one of the chairs, together with Thorin's, you bags stacked in the corner. You stretch and bury your nose in the pillow. It smells of rain and Thorin, him probably already in the common room gorging copious amounts of food and ale with the rest of the company. Your own stomach expressing its distress, you change and attempt to braid your hair. Yesterday's rain and sleeping unbraided turned you carrot coloured curls into an unruly halo. You manage to tame most of the tresses, give up and still slightly disheveled you set out for a quest in search of breakfast. The Dwarves are not hard to find, the noise of their feasting easily leading you to the common room. You enter and see a large table, breaking under the weight of cold chickens, mince-pies, eggs, cheeses and bowls of salad. Mugs of ale crowd the table and the air is full of merriment and loud chatter. Upon seeing you all Dwarves rise and cordially greet you. Smiling you wave your hand, encouraging them to go back to the meal. An empty chair is left for you between Thorin and Dwalin. You softly greet the King who smiles to you tenderly and seat down. Without interrupting his conversation with Bofur, who out of all the company seems to be in most anticipation to see the hobbit, the King places a plate with your favourite seed-cake in front of you, while with a courteous nod Balin hands you a cup of tea. Thanking the ceremonial Dwarf you pinch a piece of cake, absent-mindedly listening to the overlapping conversations of Dwarves. Not all who were in Thorin's initial company have joined him today, Fili and Kili staying in Erebor, Dori and Ori visiting family in Ered Luin. The hobbit is to come back with you to Erebor as a guest at the upcoming celebrations.

At that moment the innkeeper enters the room to inquire after his guests. He chokes on his polite words and halts in front of the table, mugs in his hands, his eyes fixed on you. Only then you notice that the other two tables in the room that are occupied by Men in travel clothes have been strangely quiet since you came in the room. The Dwarves continue their talking, pulling the mugs out of the innkeepers hands. "My dear sir, another cup of tea would be most timely," calm voice of Balin shakes the man out of his stupor. He bows and scatters to the kitchen. "My lady?" Balin offers you a plate with cheese as an excuse to look into your face. You smile to him to show your appreciation for his concern. "Master Barliman seem to have recognised me from my short stay in Bree two years ago," you carefully look aside and notice other patrons quietly whispering between themselves. Two women in the corner look positively scandalised. "Though I probably look much different from those times," you chuckle remembering the simple dress you wore while residing in Bree, and the face of your King when he first saw you in those clothes. You are currently clad in Dwarven clothes, regal dark blue in stark contrast with your copper hair, Nyrnala, the Jewel of Khazad-dum glistening on your neck, the engagement gift from the King. The clothes have a manly cut as that is how Dwarven maidens traditionally travel. But since you have no beard, you are not to be mistaken for a Dwarven youngling, but recognized for exactly what you are, a female of Men, dressed in trousers, traveling in the company of eight Dwarves. All appetite suddenly lost, you drink your tea and twiddle you rings, adorned with Dwarven ruins, bearing the name of the King Under the Mountain.

Soon after, you excuse yourself and go up to the room. You change into a dress and leave the inn. You know you have several hours before the Dwarves are full and return to their rooms for rest. It was decided that you are setting on the road the next dawn. It has been two years but you are sure you will find a few familiar faces. You easily find the house of Appledore family you delivered two babes into and had countless dinners at. You are greeted with surprise and merriment, hundreds of questions thrown at you. You are seated at the table, fed and soon enough you find yourself playing on the floor with the children, the youngest toddling around you, a chubby boy, you have last seen as an infant, red-faced and screaming with his first colic. More people appear, children slightly taller, men slightly rounder. You discuss ailments and remedies, weddings and heartbreaks, you laugh at gossip, rejoice at news and hide tears from fond memories. You do not notice that the sun is almost touching the horizon.

You are sitting at the table, finishing your third mead, bobbing a happily gurgling babe on you knee, when one of the woman you saw at the inn approaches you. You vaguely recognize her as a sister of your former patron, and an unpleasant feeling creeps into your heart. She is mannered and demure, but you do not like the coldness in her eyes. Before that moment you cleverly disclosed very little about your present life, mentioning living at the West and practicing your magic and midwifery. The woman compliments your dress and you can see her eyes jumping to your covered clavicles where, as she saw in the morning, the glowing gems of Nyrnala weigh on your skin. She lifts her eyes and recoils from the stern stare you are giving her.

Two meads later while men step outside for a pipe, women's rising voices ring in the house and the eternal question arises. "So, Filegethiel," one of the younger women draws out your Elven name, "what are men of the West like?" Everyone giggles, awaiting a witty reply from you, many hours two years ago spent in your declaiming the faulty nature of men. You open your mouth but the woman from the inn beats you to it, "She wouldn't know. Her interests lie elsewhere." She is looking at our with a challenge, taunting you to contradict it. You take a leveling breath and smile. "It is true, Men are an uninspiring subject matter," you pin her down with your gaze, wondering if she dare elaborate. "Dwarves though..." she suggestively sways her hips, and you think the last two meads should have stayed in the pantry. Women murmur among themselves and exchange confused glances. "Tell them what it is like, to live among the Stunted Ones. Which one of them was yours by the way, Filegethiel? I bet not the old one with forked beard, I would go for the tall one with fierce brows," she gives out a salacious laugh. Women turn to you, confusion mixing with suspicion on their faces. You smile an unpleasant smile to your unexpected accuser and turn to the suddenly silent room, "The tall one she mentioned is Thorin Oakenshield, the King under the Mountain, King of Durin's Folk, the sovereign of the Dwarves of Erebor, and I am indeed travelling in his company." Some of the women gasp but remain quiet under your poised glance. You have nothing to be ashamed of, and you have no need for defending your actions. "Is it the same Thorin Oakenshield who two years ago swept in here and took you away?" the woman who used to come to you for herbs against warts speaks from the corner of the room. "So it was true, you did see her dallying with a Dwarf in the bushes by the road!" "And I told you so two years ago and you accused me of spreading lies." Women start squabbling, while you feel your cheeks beginning to burn, not from the sudden accusations, but from the remembering what transpired in those bushes by the road. "She is not even denying it!" Voices are getting louder and you get up on your feet. "I am not going to deny something that is true," indeed there was quite some dallying in those bushes, probably not worth mentioning to the women though, "and explaining myself I do not wish either." The woman nearest to you takes a sleeping infant from your hands, who immediately starts crying. All women start talking at the same time, animosity towards the Durin's Folk and curiosity mixed in equal measure in their voices. "What are they like?" "Is it true that there are no Dwarf women?" One younger one is courageous enough to ask, "Are they covered in hair all over their bodies?" Older women gasp in indignation, but you feel that daring ones should rewarded. "No, they are not, just their arms and chest," the girl squeals and others maidens starts murmuring among themselves. Judging by shushed giggles, they do not share the antagonism of the grown-ups. You suddenly start enjoying the disorder you are causing. "And the legs, of course," the girls roar with laughter. "Not that different from men then," someone comments. "Any more questions?" you circle the room with authoritative stare. The woman from the inn steps forward and you ask yourself what did you do two years ago to get on her nerves so. "So do they actually take wives or you are just travelling with them?" The implications of her question are too slandering even for most judgemental of the women, and someone is pulling her sleeve to make her step away. And then you remember. "Yes, they do. Dwarves marry for life and never remarry if widowed. They also never cheat on their loved ones and do not bring love itch into their spousal bed," you finally place her face on the memory of brewing a wash to ease the irritation in the nether regions. And brewing a bottle for her neighbor as well as his wife. She slams the door behind herself unnecessarily loudly. Someone laughs but most just feel relieved. Conversation return to the local news but you feel tired and start goodbying. Men are coming back from outside, you exchange words with them, everyone suddenly standing awkwardly, wishing luck and prosperity, promising to write, warning against the poor state of the road. At that very moment decisive knock at the front door stops everyone in their tracks. The host goes to open the door, but you have already recognized the knock and brace yourself. The low rumble of your King's voice is rolling into the sitting room and soon enough he is entering, regal, breath-taking, resplendent. One of the young women who were giggling before breathes out, "Maiar help me, no wonder!" The King politely bows to the assembly and turns to you, "My Queen, you had me worried," the decadent velour of his voice bears around the room. "You have disappeared for the whole day. Had I known you are among friends," he bestows a charitable smile to the silent townsfolk, "I would have been tranquil. I was hoping for the honour of sharing dinner with you, azyungal." You hastily bid farewell to the party, while he is waiting patiently by the door, with a slight exasperation on his face, seemingly without noticing the children staring at him and women whispering in awe. Before giving his last dignified nod to the hosts, he helps you into your cloak and kisses the knuckles of your hand while you are struggling with the clasp on your neck. You step out into brisk twilight and when a few steps separate you from the house you start laughing. Thorin shakes off the composed mask and cocks a brow. You are laughing, wrapping your arms around his neck and he picks you up for a few giddy swirls. "What brought this frolicing?" he saks after putting you down and kissing you thoroughly. You loop your arm through his and start, "Remember, when two years ago you barged into my house and burglarized me?" He scoffs, "I am afraid I remember it quite differently." "But you do remember the bushes under the bridge, my Lord?" He smirks, "Quite well." "I guess we were not that well concealed as we thought then."


	2. Chapter 2

You are slowly walking back to the inn, your hand on his bent arm, in a companionable silence. You chuckle thinking of the events of the evening. He glances on your sideways and lifts a brow. "I should not have gone," your voice lacks sadness, you are just stating a fact. "I thought you have enjoyed seeing your acquaintances again." "And yet you rushed to my rescue, my King." "Nonsense, the innkeeper told me where to find you and I, a possessive Dwarf that I am, did not wish to share your attention for too long," he is feigning haughtiness but he is an open book. "You were worried that the townsfolk will berate me for associating with a Dwarf and will throw rotten vegetables at me." "I would like to see them try," he snorts. "I have seen your anger, my kurdu, Dunlendings would have to return and resettle the scorching remains of Bree if you were not pleased with its inhabitants." You smack his forearm, "I have assisted some of these inhabitants to arrive to this world, I would never bring any harm to them." He chuckles but then asks with concern, "Have they caused you any distress, my heart?" "No, but living in Erebor I forgot how odd our bond is," you give a mirthless laugh, "which is quite remarkable, considering the well-known prejudice of the Dwarves." "You are loved and respected in Erebor, kurdu, and after the wedding even the most narrow-minded will cease their disapproval." You do not share his conviction, but that is a conversation for another day. "Some women were not that irked by our affiliation though. Especially after you sauntered into the sitting room," you give him a mischievous smile, "in all your regal splendour. And in your grantest formal cloak for that matter." He is screwing his eyes at you, not sure if he should take pleasure in the compliment or get irritated by the mockery. "I do not believe maidens of Men can appreciate a Dwarf." "Maidens of Men appreciate strength and honour when they see them," you bestow a gentle kiss on his cheek. He pats your hand on his arm. "The dinner is waiting, zundush. Your adoring subjects have been asking after you."

You are sitting on your bed, brushing your hair, deep in thoughts. After sharing the meal with the company, you quickly excused yourself and went up to the room early, blaming it on a turbulent day. The Dwarves stayed behind and you do not expect your King for several more hours. You need to organize your thoughts, arduous journey on a back of a pony not allowing your usual private hours to practice magic and sort out your emotional state. Something has been bothering you throughout this trip, and you are perplexed. Peace and prosperity bestowed on Erebor, wedding preparations almost concluded, this visit was to be an occasion for merry and refreshing vacation, for the company to reconvene, to revisit the road full of fond memories, for old friends to reunite, for new friendships to be formed.

Your King always speaks of the hobbit with unparallelled fondness, and their adventures have become your favourite stories. As untalkative as your King is, if caught at the right moment, most often reposing on the fur rugs in front of the fire, when logs are crackling and you are softly tracing mindless swirls on his naked skin , he would cave in and start recollecting the Quest for Erebor, the joys and the dangers, the creatures they met, the flight on the Eagles, the troll caves, the barrel ride. You would laugh and gasp, basking in his sudden openness, enjoying the animated expressions on his face, his eyes gleaming, his low voice weaving a captivating tale. He is obviously emitting some parts but you know your King and can fill in the gaps. You do not insist of unearthing the unpleasant memories, but enjoy the occasional rumble of your King's laughter when he recollects the most unbelievable of their adventures.

You were looking forward to this visit, having heard a lot about the hospitality of hobbits, especially during your stay in Bree. This particular hobbit evokes the most intense interest in you. You have spent all your life on the road, until Erebor became your home, you have hard time imagining what it is like to have a place you are anchored to and giving it all up for a perilous endeavor, and to make matters worse, in a company of Dwarves. And even more so, to become a valued companion for these mistrustful warriors, to survive a battle and to find in these Dwarves ardent and loyal friends, Master Baggins has to be one exceptional hobbit!

However, now you are overcome with unease, your thoughts anxiously flailing, your mind fruitlessly looking for the reason for your agitation. You throw the brush aside on the bed and fall back on the covers. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You collect yourself and prepare for the effortful pursuit of coalescing with your magic. You envision your mind as an intricate maze of an old forest, massive trunks of ancient trees disappearing in the milky fog above your head, soft carpet of silver moss, golden ribbons of your magic lacing between the trees. You walk around, caressing the smooth white bark, feeling the pulse of life inside the wooden flesh. You choose one ribbon and follow it, the pulps of your finger sliding along the silken strip. It loops and entwined, you circle the trees, return to the same ones again and again, never halting, keeping your fingers on the streams of your magic, and suddenly you feel the throbbing of one of them. You feel that it is strained under a duress of an unknown anguish, and you rush ahead, chasing the evading throe. And then, when you see a glowing knot where many ribbons tangle, flutters radiating from this heart of all invading turbulence, the door to your room opens and Thorin stumbles in, obviously trying to be quiet but failing miserably in his inebriated state.

You slam your palm into the bed with an unsatisfying soft thump and cry out in frustration, "Thorin!" He freezes in the doorframe, half of his body inside the room, guilty smile on the flushed face. You come back to reality and sit up. "Forgive me, my King, I was lost in my thoughts, and you startled me." He comes in and sits down on the bed near you. You are right in your assumption, he obviously has had more than his usual share of ale. His cheeks are burning, and his skin seems to be radiating heat more than usual. Nonetheless, he picks up your hands and asks with sincere concern, "What is troubling you, zudnush?" You sigh and rub your thumbs on the hot skin of the back of his hands. "I do not know, my Lord. But I do not seem to be able to find peace. Something is bothering me, some sort of hindrance seems to be disturbing my magic and my mind" He pulls you into his arms and gently strokes your frizzy curls. "You will unravel this puzzlement, my heart. You always do." "But I have never felt like this before, as if it is there, I just have to stretch my hand and reach it, but I can't." He moves away and looks into your eyes. "What "it"?" "Pardon?" "What is it that you are trying to reach?" You stop in your tracks and realize that you are indeed envisioning the reason for your anxiety as an object that you do not seem to grasp. The image of the glowing knot in your forest comes to mind. "I do not know," you say tiredly and fall back on the bed. "Shall we just repose and forget about this nonsense? I just wish to take my mind off it." He stretches near you on the bed and buries his nose in your neck. "Then we should provide a distraction for you, zundush." You find the idea quite attractive and straddle him. He guffaws and pulls on the belt of your night dress.

The morning comes and you are enticed out of your sleep with gentle caresses of your King's palms and lips on your naked skin. His warm body is wrapped around your back, one of his arms serving as your pillow, his other cupping your buttock, lips exploring your ear and nape. You hum appreciatively and slightly rub your bum into his already erect member. He continues soft nibbling on the gentle skin behind your ear and slips into you. You moan and arch your back. His hands are caressing your breasts, your lovemaking unhurried and thorough. He is murmuring almost inaudibly, tender loving nonsenses, lips brushing your ear, his hand sliding between your legs, stroking your clit, in the soft circular motions, reflecting the lavish deep thrusts of his pelvis. Your breathing hitching, you are bending your back further, pressing your head into his shoulder. He quickens his ministrations, and whispers, "Come for me, kurdu, let it go." Your release is slow and devastating like a boiling river of magma pouring out of a fire mountain. He is kissing your shoulder and, having received your permission in a form of a gentle shove of your hips, he continues moving, torturous deep thrusts driving you into frenzy. You are now awake and start reciprocating, your hand slipping behind you and grabbing his backside. He chuckles and picks up speed, palming your breast, biting your neck. And then with a few jerky movements he pushes you both over the edge, your second release bursting like fireworks. You catch your breath and murmur, "That is certainly a wonderful way to meet a new day." He is rubbing his nose on your ear. "Distraction seemed to help you last night. I'm only ensuring that today you are still content, kurdu." "Well, everything you endeavour, my Lord, you do indeed achieve."

And how right you are! Your mood today is a stark opposite of the day before. You are brushing your hair, singing under your nose, and ask yourself why you even heeded the nonsensical misgivings. The sun is shining through the window and you are catching it with your mirror, tickling your King's nose with the reflections. He rubs it and chuckles. "You do seem rather jubilant this morning." You jump on your feet and swirl around the room, laughing, eyes closed. "I honestly do not seem to even recall what I was so uneasy about all these days," you land on the bed and pounce on him, pushing him back into the sheets and pillows. "Thank you," you are peppering kisses and gentle bites over his chest. "Thank you for being patient with me." "I am only happy you have regained your joyous disposition. But if you wish, we can consolidate the success," he is smirking suggestively and you roll on your back pulling his over yourself. "I think we should, we wouldn't want for my ailment to return."

During the breakfast you are happily chatting with the Dwarves, your smile and merriment seemingly spreading onto all the members of the company. The innkeeper and the tapster run back and forth, more and more food appearing on the table and disappearing as quickly. You are laughing on Bofur's jesting, smile to Balin, break the wishbone with Bombur. Even Dwalin is smiling widely, shaking his head. All food tastes wonderful, you try everything, even steal a piece of especially delicious cheese from Thorin's plate. He pretends not to see but pinches your thigh under the table. You vindictively reciprocate by rubbing your foot to his calf. He chokes on ale, and Dwalin starts loudly clapping his back, adding to the overall glee.

Supplies acquired and bags packed, the Dwarves are saddling the ponies. You finish dressing, bundling in a warm cloak, and, happily whistling a cheerful tune, you are bouncing down the stairs, skipping steps and tapping a brisk rhythm on the rails with your fingers. At the bottom of the stairs you freeze as the understanding catches up with you, the events of the previous days rushing in your mind, puzzle pieces fitting together. You suddenly feel faint and sit on the bottom step, wrapping your arms around your flat stomach. Your magic flares up and behind your closed lids you finally see the golden knot for what it really is. A tiny beating heart.


	3. Chapter 3

For the next two days with the weather finally having improved, the mood in the company is amended, the ponies seemingly sharing the cheerfulness, loudly snorting, the first spring breeze frisking in their thick manes. Upper cloaks are often stuffed in the saddle bags, conversations ringing above the small procession. The first night after Bree spent in a camp, the second day is drawing to a sunset, the village of Frogmorton with its hospitable inn, hopefully soft beds and hobbit ale your next stop. You are looking forward to stretching your back on actual sheets, but not before a long hot bath.

You are riding behind your King's pony, silent and detached, your mind focused on the little rhythm inside you. Since you left Bree, you have done nothing but attentively listen to the firm thumping inside. You forget to answer questions and mindlessly chew the food you are given, having a tentative inner conversation with what you envision as an evenly pulsating globe of golden glow. The beat is surprisingly strong, refuting your initial dread that the two bloods would contend in its, no, _**his**_ veins. He is already strong and enduring, a warrior, and so soon, and this thought alone makes you dizzy. You are frantically thwarting your thoughts and imagination exploring further, stubbornly ambushing you with the image of the horror you will have to face when he wields his first battle axe. Do not get carried away, do not dream on, you silently command yourself, do not imagine him as a curious and stubborn toddler, with raven curls and steely blue eyes, or a youngling trying to escape the overbearing care of the older Dwarves, or as a strong skilled warrior.

You realize that the King has been addressing you for quite a while, judging by his slightly irritated, confused frown. "Kurdu?" you ask, feeling surprisingly guilty. He is slowing down and aligns his pony with yours. "Are you well, my heart?" "Yes, my Lord, never better, just tired". When did you become such a mediocre liar? That muttering would not convince a thick skulled troll! He is scanning your face suspiciously and then exchanges glances with Dwalin. The fearsome warrior nods, worry etched on his face as well. "I am in perfect health," you squeak and both Dwarves look at your even more incredulously. You need to try harder, buy some time to sort out your thoughts. "My back bothers me, it has been a while since I spent so much time on a horseback," that sounds much more convincing, and the King concedes. "Just till the end of this day, my heart. We will reach the inn in a few hours." You smile, and the King rides ahead, catching up with Balin. You exhale in relief but catch the doubtful eyes of the tattooed warrior. Fair enough, Dwalin, son of Fundin, your scepticism is more than reasonable, the hardships of road have never bothered me before, but bear with me this time! You smile to him and he nods, lips pressed together.

You return to your thoughts, scrutinizing the guilt you are feeling. Keeping your secret seemed an instinctive proceeding, caused by astoundment and sudden but intense protectiveness. You can hardly stop yourself from covering your stomach with your hands at all times. Another thought comes, dark and frightening. If the babe is not to survive, would you want your King to bear the pain of disappointment? Except, will you bear to lose the budding light in you, if your King will not be there to sustain you in the trial? And would he want to relish the days of joy even if they are to end before their time?

If what you hear is indeed a heartbeat, then the babe is at least eight weeks old, having survived his first two moons. The chances are high, somehow his strength and stubborn will of no doubt to you already. Your thoughts race back to eight weeks ago, rummaging through the lustful nights and days, looking for that special moment when the little seed of life planted itself in you. But there are too many memories, some tender and demure, some causing your cheeks to burn, wedding preparations augmenting your passion for each other. The bed, the dark locked passages, the pantries, the stables, the forge, the throne room… You curse your mutual fervour, wishing you could pin down that one time. Or the part of a day. Or a day. Was it that one evening when discussion of the wedding feast led to the King sampling mead from your naked stomach? Or was it the time when your King's singing drove you into sensual frenzy, leading to you interrupting and ravishing him three times before he managed to finish one song?

The darkness falls and you reach the Floating Log Inn. A merry rosy-cheeked innkeeper completely overwhelmed by the splendorous cortege of nine fully armoured Dwarves rushes the help to prepare the rooms, the kitchen is bursting with activity, young hobbits running around, awed and incredulous. You keep your hood down, staying in Dwalin's shadow, suddenly feeling exhausted. You do not need the wariness and suspicious interest you cause wherever you go. A female of Men, red haired and pale, an inch shorter than your King, you are singled out more than often on your own, more so dressed in a formal Dwarven attire with a broad Dwarven sword strapped to your back. Frankly speaking, sometimes you entertain yourself in your travels with your King by waiting till an opportune moment to shake off your hood and enjoy flabbergasted faces, but today is not the day. All you want is a bath and sleep.

You are sitting on the bed, drying your hair, when the King enters with a large plate of food and a mug of ale. Gratitude floods you, a disagreeable thought of going to the common room has been fighting in you with ravenous hunger. You earnestly thank him and tuck in. You lift the ale to your lips and wrinkle your nose, the earthy spicy smell suddenly repulsive. The King is standing leaning to the wall, and you realize that he is studying you, black brows frowned. You pause your vigorous chewing and look up. "My Lord?" "Is it the women of Bree?" He has a habit of asking concise but somewhat confusing questions, following an inner dialogue that he apparently tends to lead with you. You blink and swallow the mouthful of mince-pie. "My Lord?" "You are not yourself since we left Bree. As you claim you are not ailing, I assume you are distressed. Is it their slandering that grieved you?" "They were not slanderous! If anything, they were curious, slightly suspicious, of course, but not hostile. Younger maidens were rather inquisitive," you laugh, "They wanted to know if Dwarves are covered in hair all over their bodies." The King, however, does not join you in your merriment. "Then what is it? Are you regretting going on this trip?" "No, of course not," you are suddenly overwhelmed with desire to tell him the truth. Do it, a soft voice is whispering in your head, he will be overjoyed, let him lift your worriment. Dwarven eminent devotedness to their children often vexed you previously, as choosing you as his Queen the King was possibly giving up on his hope for an heir. He made quite clear that it is indeed his choice, and the conversation would not return to it, but you would catch his eyes on a Dwarf youngling and your heart would painfully clench. You take a long breath and chew on your lips. You open your mouth not sure what you are going to say, when he puffs scornfully, "Be it your way. I wish you discussed it with me, but I'm not to force you. I will come back after dinner in the common room." You nod, not sure if you are actually relieved. "Would you send some tea up, my Lord? The ale does not agree with me today." He nods and leaves.

You are returning to your dinner when a knock at the door announces the help with a tea tray. You open the door without thinking, and a pair of widened eyes is staring at you. A young female hobbit is about to drop the tray when you catch it and take it from her hands. You realize a young woman with an unruly mane of half-dry copper curls in a night dress and a robe is not at all what she expected to find in a room payed for by an imposing Dwarven prince. "Thank you," you are smiling and she smiles back, though rather uncertainly. "Is there anything else you require, my lady?" "I seem to have misplaced my brush. Would you be able to purchase one for me, please?" The girl nods enthusiastically and disappears. She comes back when you are finishing your tea with a lovely brush, decorated carved handle absolutely delightful. "Would you like me to help you with brushing, my lady? There is a lot of work here," any trepidation forgotten, she is unceremonious and warm-hearted. "Oh, please do," you sit on a chair and she delicately touches the curls. "I used to help my sisters with their hair, but yours is so much softer. Like fitch's fur," she is caressing the tresses with the brush, carefully detangling and smoothing the disobedient strands. You have grown your hair long following the Dwarven customs, heavy braids and complicated dos in order. It flows down to your waist, and sometimes you feel like grabbing Thorin's favourite dagger and chopping it off. The impulse is fleeing though, to your King's great relief. He is very fond of your flaming mop. Men are ridiculously predictable in their preferences, no matter the race.

The hobbit, who introduces herself as Daisy, is brushing, her endless chatter about her family, the life in Frogmorton, weather and crops provides an unexpected pleasurable distraction from your quandary. "So, where are you travelling, my lady?" "The Shire. My companions are visiting an old friend." "Oh my, not something you see everyday," she shakes her round, curly head. "Nine Dwarves marching through the Shire, with their axes and beards and armour," she is giggling, her voice like a little silver bell. You laugh with her, "Eight Dwarves, I am not a Dwarf." She looks at you in surprise, "And I thought you were. I thought someone finally saw a Dwarven wife." You shake your head. "Dwarven women look exactly like their men, broad and sturdy," her eyes are large and blue, like the saucers in your Grandmother's cupboard. "And they have beards." "No!" she clasps a hand over her mouth. "I am of Men," you whisper to her as if sharing a secret. "But the Dwarf..." she bites her lip and blushes, obviously afraid to say something improper. You smile and shrug. She giggles and blushes even more furiously. "They are good husbands, loyal and devoted. Do you not find them attractive?" You ask conspiratorially. "Some are not that scary, but the beards!" You guffaw and thank Maiar for this girl's unexpected presence. She seems to be giving it a bit more thought. "And good fathers too probably. I heard that they fiercely guard their wives and children, locking them up underground," she realizes that she is sharing this telltale with someone who actually knows the truth, and falters. "They do not lock their wives in dungeons if that is what you heard, but they do sometimes tend to be overprotective," you are chuckling. "We do guard our treasures well," the velvet voice of your King startles you both, and you jump in the opposite directions, having furtively leant towards each other. "My Lord," the girl squeaks and curtsies. You are suppressing a sneaker. "Would that be all, my lady?" "Yes, thank you, Daisy," she gives you a genuine smile and hurries out of the room.

"How do I never notice your stealthy approach, my Lord?" you are chuckling while the King is shedding his outergarments. "I am more curious how you survived the life on the road for so many years when lacking in observation skills so," he is grumbling, his legendary temper searing. You come closer and hug him from behind. "I have magic," you whisper in mock conspiratorial voice. You slide your arms around his waist and press your face into his back. "What have I done to displease my Lord?" Your submissive tone deceives noone. His back is still tense, hands on the footboard of the bed. "Should I not ask you the same question, my Queen?" You rub your face between his shoulder blades and sigh. His foul mood dampens your spirit. You feel tongue-tied, words swirling in your head, nothing seems to be the right thing to say. And then a sudden shudder runs through your body, dread flooding you, cold helplessness clenching at your heart. You are crushed under the weight of the dawning understanding that your life is not your own anymore, your body not to be disregarded or sacrificed in a battle at your will, your life not to be given for a cause you find worthy. You imagine the warm flickering glow inside of you, yours to protect, to care for, your life forever bound to your beautiful, brave son And even when he leaves the safety of your body, he will still be yours to guard with your life and magic. You grasp from how weak and defenseless you are now, relying on the benevolence of your changeable King. You jolt back, pressing a hand onto your mouth, a violent sob bursting out of you. The King swirls around and grabs your shoulders. "Kurdu, enough with that. Tell me what it is," he is almost screaming, frenzied fear thrashing in his eyes, "I cannot help if I know not what is afflicting you." You step further back, biting your finger, almost drawing blood, closing your eyes in futile attempts to govern your hysterics, to stop tears running down your face. You sink on the floor, shaking, fisting your hands. Thorin falls on his knees in front of you, grabbing your shoulders again, trying to catch your eyes. You throw yourself at him, wrap around him tightly and let the crying overwhelm you.

Your tears subsiding, your reason is coming back to you, and you feel suddenly remorseful. A panicked King is pressing you into him with bone-crushing force, probably on the verge of tears himself. Surely he thinks an irremediable calamity has befallen you, never previously has he seen you losing your composure in such a violent outburst. After years of midwifery you do not find your behaviour that perplexing though, having seen parturient women acting even more preposterously. You console yourself that at least your sudden anguish is justified, expectant mothers and those tending to infants being indeed defenseless and dependent. Therefore, it is customary for Dwarves to confine them to the underground chambers, no traveling allowed. Nonetheless, with your heightened emotions receding, your self-assurance comes back to you, and, taking a deep breath, you are ready to venture ahead. You straighten up and wipe your tears, "Forgive me, my Lord!" "For what?" the King cries out, his voice terrified. He is clenching his jaw, doubtlessly wondering what delinquencies you could have performed to be so heart-broken. Jealous, distrustful Dwarf! Surely, he is imagining an illicit love affair. And judging by the quickly darkening face, with an Elf. Your mood unpredictable and changeful, you suddenly feel giddy and mischievous and ponder continuing with the charade but then take pity of the anguished Dwarf. "For my outpouring, my spirit is just fickle these days." You have recovered sufficiently to give him an encouraging smile.

"Fickle?" He hissed through his teeth and squints his eyes at you. "You scared me to death, woman. What am I to think?" He jumps up on his feet, heating up from his own indignation, pacing around the room. "First you sulk for days, obviously hiding something. Then you are flighty like a lark. And then you are sobbing and lamenting on the floor! I was prepared for the worst! What am I to assume? An adulterous entanglement?" Why, you are not even surprised, you mentally sneer. of course, you did. "Theft? Treason?" Well, that is already ludicrous.

You get up from the floor and fix your robe. You sit on the bed and demurely place your hands on your knees. "Regretfully, you might have to accustom to these outbursts, my Lord. There are more to come." The King is standing in the middle of the room, panting at his boiling point, gnashing his teeth, resentment radiating from him. You are looking at him from under your lashes, consciously testing his temper. For the sake of you three, his quick rage and petulance have to abate. To ensure the immovability of his devotedness to you and the warm little being growing in you, you need to know he would always be at your side. You wait patiently, attentively watching him. The world shifts, and you see Thorin's face falter. Exhaling sharply, the King looks at you with exhausted, pained expression, his shoulders sag, fingers unclench. he sits on the bed near you and picks up your hands. "I am begging you, my heart, do not torment me further more. Confide in me, and whatever it is I will aid you, with all my ability" pleading, he is peering into your eyes. You smile into his eyes and whisper, "I am with child, Thorin."


	4. Chapter 4

Thorin is blinking. There is not much more to say, since that is the only thing he is doing. His face is blank, pupils dilated, he is staring at a point at a wall behind your right shoulder. He is still holding your hands, a thumb unknowingly to him continues stroking your knuckles. "Thorin?" He blinks again, this time seemingly shaking off the stupour, and looks at you. "Are you certain?" "Yes, I am. I would not have told you, my King, had I not been certain. My magic allows me to hear the hear." "The heart?" The king pales and presses a hand to his forehead. The gesture is so melodramatic and unsuiting the stern King Under the Mountain that you giggle. He suddenly shifts his eyes and stares at your stomach, his hand still pressed to his brow. To be honest, he is a few inches off but you allow him his impracticable investigation. The bizarre pertification that has befallen the King becomes increasingly comical, and you start chuckling. "My King, that is not quite the reception that I expected upon telling you the news." He cannot seems to tear his eyes from your middle, the only change is the growing pressure of his fingers on your phalanges.

He is still silent, and you pull one hand out from his crashing hold and jab his shoulder. He blinks again, Mahal help you, and gulps. "A babe?" An almost uncontrollable desire to snark, "No, a warg pup" is battling in you with acute sympathy to your King. Apparently, Dwarves are not quite such quick thinkers as you always assumed. And apparently, the possibility of a child is the last thing that your King was prepared for. You consider delivering a final blow by telling him it is a male heir of the line of Durin, but allow him some more time to recuperate. He stretches his free hand towards your stomach but pauses an inch away, his fingers visibly shakingly.

And then your Thorin is back, a beaming smile lights up his face, and he presses his warm palm to your stomach. "A babe," his tone is finally assertive, and you laugh. "A son." His eyes widen, and he stares in your eyes. "You can ascertain that as well." His tone is awed. "Do not glorify my abilities just yet, my Lord. It took me awhile to recognize it for what it is. Since I have never had to examine the symptoms from inside," you chuckle. "I find it endlessly amusing that I have seen others go through this so often, and yet it appeared so inconceivable." He is smiling and gently strokes your stomach. "Are you going to mutter other banalities as well, my Lord? "Are you sure it is baby?" is indeed the most common. There is also, "How did that happen?"" He screws his laughing eyes at you. "I do know where children come from, zundush." He finally pulls you into his arms and buries his nose in your hair. You busk in his affection, and the world is right again.

"Why now?" he asks, his voice soft, "Why not before?" You consider his question. In the early days, you protected yourself, some herbs and roots being greatly effective to make sure a child was not to be conceived. But later, upon discussing it with the King, you stopped taking them. Neither of you spoke of it, but with years you both just accepted that your races were not meant to procreate jointly. "I do not know," you sigh into his chest and rub your cheek to where his rapid hearbeat is drumming. He moves you away from his body and hold you at arm's length. "Will it bring harm to it," he stumbles over his own words, "to him, that you are not a Dwarf?" You momentarily get annoyed that he picks your race as a possible flaw in this union, but there is no point in discussing it now. "No, he is as healthy as any babe at this stage. Something can still happen," you look down at your hands that are now resting on your knees, "But his chances are as higher as for any other healthy child. He is a very strong and determined little being," you smile and the King smiles with you. Paternal pride is blossoming in his eyes, and you already see that he is going to be impossible from now on. "That is good," he nods, affirming something internally. "We are turning around and returning to Erebor." Here you go.

Your temper flares you but then you deter yourself, reminding yourself that the King does not possess your knowledge in midwifery. "It is quite alright, my Lord. I am perfectly healthy and capable. There is no need to change any of our plans." You give him a reassuring smile, but he frowns and gets up. The stern posture and the decisive line of his tense jaw, which you are unfortunately so familiar with, tell you you have a battle ahead of you. "The road is no place for an expecting woman." Here come the banalities! You start with trying to alleviate his worrying. "I feel completely well. It is just my moods and appetites that are affected." The mentioning of appetite makes you think of seedcake and sweet tea, and you get momentarily distracted. Then you think of other appetites, and you glance at the unsuspecting King, who is frowning and pacing around the room. He is positively delectable, his upper body clad only in a light shirt, sleeves rolled up, trousers hugging the glorious backside. You imagine licking that throat and raking the shoulders with your nails. Well, you concede, what they say of pregnant women is true. Mind of a squirrel, hunger of a wolf.

You switch to reasoning. "My Lord, there is only one day of travel left to reach the Shire. If we turn around, we will have to spend the next night under the open sky. And there is a rainstorm coming." It is true, you can feel the quiver of an approaching thunder in the air. The King halts and contemplates, immobile in the middle of the room. You are fighting starvation and the desire to tear the clothes off his hard, warm, strong, scrumptious body. You shake your head to clear the libidinous haze. The King assents, "We will continue the journey, but as soon as the weather permits, we are returning home." You understand that this is the first of the countless discussions of your capability in your current state, most of them will probably turn into heated arguments, but so far you are satisfied. The trip is to continue, and you will address the King's overprotective impulses when they arise.

"As you say, my King," he looks at your suspiciously but you are a picture of a womanly obedience. He definitely expected more quarreling as he knows you well. "My Lord, would it be possible to send for tea? I am afraid my hunger these days is unquenchable." And if you could take off your shirt, that would be grand as well. You shush the rapacious growl in your head and smile demurely. The King dashes to the door. Eager to please, are we? Oh, these upcoming months are going to be fun!

You are finishing your second cup of tea, under a loving and bemused gaze of the King. He is sitting on the bed, across the teatray from you, plates on it heaping with cakes, cheeses, toast and jam. "I have to say, I have never seen you eating so copiously. You have always possessed a healthy appetite, zundush, but you are positively ravenous." And you are positively appetizing, my Lord. Oh shush you, one craving at a time. You lick honey from your finger and suck at the tip. The King's eyes fix on your lips. Someone is eager to celebrate as well. You smile a predatory smile and move the tray to the floor. You pull at the belt of your robe and lean closer.

Thorin jumps up and bolts to the corner of the room, actually placing a chair between you two. You lift a brow in befuddlement. "I think I should go down and ask for another room," his voice is raspy, and he clears his throat. You feel you are missing something. "My Lord?" "Your state," he is vaguely waving in the direction of your stomach, "it is not wise for us to stay in the same bed." "Thorin, you are not going to harm the baby if you roll over me in your sleep," you are laughing but his face gets even more panicked. "It is not the sleeping that troubles me." You are starting to understand. "Is it about the ridiculous Dwarven custom of purity during parturiency? Are you trying to avoid temptation of sharing the bed with me?" His eyes shift. You lick your lips and murmur sensually, "Is my Lord scared of not being in control of his lecherous yearnings?" He shrinks even more and starts retracting to the door. You pounce and beat him to it. You press your back to it and pin him with a stare. "It is not a ridiculous custom. One is not to bed his wife while she is carrying a child," he goes as far as to give the window a sideways glance, and you snort. "It is an old wife's tale, Thorin. There is nothing harmful in it, it is good for the woman's body and spirit and enjoyable for both partaking it." "It is not to be done!" You lock the door and put the key in the pocket of your robe. You advance, effectively cornering him. You never thought you would hear Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, the King Under the Mountain squeak in fear. "I have overseen hundreds of pregnancies, delivered plenty of healthy babes and I know what I am saying. It is completely safe and very, very pleasurable for the woman," you are purring and he swallows loudly. Nonetheless, he is jerkily shaking his head and stretches his hand. "Give me the key, kurdu."

"No," you actually stomp, "You are not leaving this room tonight." He looks at you almost pleadingly. You try different approach. "I am distressed, all the agitation of the last few days, I need consoling. And doting. A lot of doting," you look at him from under your lashes. He throws a sideways glance at the bed and immediately looks terrified. He understands that once you get your hands on him, he is lost. You both know that self-control in carnal matters is not one of his strong points. "We will just repose, have some rest," you are murmuring, edging closer. "We both know it is not true," his resolve is wavering. "Of course not," that is it, you have had enough of the Dwarven prejudice and stubbornness. "We will get into this bed and you will please the mother of your child, repeatedly, or Mahal help me, I will combust!" Your eyes are probably mad and flashing, and he gapes. "And we both know that you would not last either, since the Dwarven pregnancy is forty eight months," he looks momentarily aghast, apparently having forgotten this fact, "even with half of Dwarven blood in him your son is not coming for the nearest sixteen months. Are you planning to stay away from my body for sixteen months?" He runs his eyes over the said body and capitulates. "No... But only because I trust your experience as a midwife." Meaning, and not because he cannot control his urges. Right… "For which I am endlessly grateful, now off with your clothes and into the bed!"

You step forward, and grabbing the bottom of his shirt you pull it off, his broad exquisite chest with coarse hair and hard muscles finally in front of you. He guffaws but chokes on it when you rake his chest with you nails. He picks you up, rough palms groping your buttocks, hot lips on your mouth. You moan and clasp your hips around his waist. For a moment he supports you with one arm, another pushing the robe of your shoulder. Stepping over it, he lowers you on the bed, sinks on the floor on his knees between your legs and wraps his fingers around your small feet. His palms are slowly sliding up your legs, preceded by greedy lips. He kisses and sucks, until he reaches the hemline of your night dress. Then the hands rush ahead, hiking up the skirt, while the lips and tongue lavish attention to your revealed inner thigh. You are whimpering and writhing, clawing at the covers on the bed. You pick up your bum and he pushes the night dress up, slips one hand under your shoulder blades and lifts you torso, divesting you of the dress.

You fall back on the bed with an oomph, his hands back on your hips bones. You shortly wonder if he is going for what is the last line left uncrossed in your intimacy, when his hot breath scorches your folds. You take it as a yes and then violently cry out when his mouth is pressed to your throbbing sex. You thrash and grab handfuls of his hair. He hums, and that is almost painfully intense. He slips his tongue between your labiae, and you realize that he is sampling the taste. That almost pushes you over edge. He gives each fold a slow lick, thumbs caressing your hipbones, and then he closes his mouth over the clit. You buck your hips and pull at his ebony strands harder. He moans and lets go, going back to the tortuous exploration of your dripping folds. You arch your back, spread you legs wider and notice you have been begging for a while. "Please, please, please..." He slides one hand from the hip and the tip of his index finger is caressing your opening. "I am not certain what exactly you are pleading for, kurdu," his voice is low and gruff, feral smirk on his lips. "Please, let me come, please." He is chuckling, continuing to stroke you with featherlike touches of his fingers. "I do not think you understand, my Queen. I genuinely do know what you are asking for. I have never done that before," he lowers his lips on you again and your whole body jerks. "Prideful Dwarven warriors consider that beneath them," he informs you between lazy licks, "Such activities are a duty of women." You are grasping for air and see small black dots in front of your eyes. "So you see, my heart, a bit of guidance would be highly appreciated." "Oh, you are doing just fine," you remark drowns in your howling when he gives your clit a hard suck. Encouraged by your reaction, he does it again and then circles it with the tip of his tongue. You yell his name and climax, clenching his head between your hips.

He gives you a moment to recover and then licks you again. You yelp and scamper from him, pushing his head away and scooting back to the wall. He chuckles deep in his chest and wipes his beard with his palm. You flop on the bed, panting and quivering. He lies down near you and places his warm palm on your stomach. "That was quite enjoyable," you look at him askance, not capable of moving your head. In the matter of fact, none of your muscles work. "I loved how vocal you were," he is murmuring and rubs his face into your stomach. "Are you more sensitive because of the babe? You mentioned increasing appetites," the smirk on his lips is completely indecent. "I would not be able to compare, would I, my Lord?" "Indeed," he is kissing the stomach now and you feel you have rested sufficiently. "Perhaps, my King, we should partake in an activity that you have previously enjoyed," you roll on your side and caress his chest. "Indeed," he pulls you on top of him and picking you up under you arms he seats you on his bulging erection. "Let us start with your favourite, you do relish holding the reins so," he smirks and you silence him with an ardent kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I know nothing of breeding, bunnies and genetics. Just go with it! Whatever! :)**

**This one is short. It has been lying around for a while. I'll just post it and move on. Bilbo is waiting. **

The rain is softly rustling behind the window, and you hum a simple melody, raindrops a subtle rhythm to your lullaby. You are curled into your King's side and your fingers are idly tracing the swirls of the black chest hair. "I love your singing," he murmurs, his hand lazily brushing through your curls. You chuckle, "Nonsense. I am hopeless." He smirks into your hair. "Have you noticed that you only sing after our lovemaking, kurdu?" "Rest of the time I am too concerned with decorum, I suppose. I do not wish to torture people's ears with it. Especially in comparison with your voluptuous voice, my Lord." "My voluptuous voice?" He is chuckling at your choice of words. "As if you do not know, my Lord." "To think of it, just the other day I did not even have time to put my harp away when you pounced like a mountain lion. You do seem especially eager after some music playing," he turns and lifts a glorious black brow at you. "When am I not eager?" you laugh and he joins in, pulls you to his lips and places you on top of him.

You look at him in mock suspicion, preparing to tell him that three climaxes are probably enough for today, but he is not after any carnal pleasures. He is gently stroking your back, tender eyes inquisitive. Ah, the curiosity of a man who is to become a father. "How long do you think till the babe comes, kurdu?" You chuckle. "I honestly cannot tell for sure, I have never even heard of a half-Dwarf, half-Man, to say nothing of his or her growth in a womb." "Cannot say I have," he frowns. "How Dwarvish will he be? How tall?" "I doubt he will be tall, my King," you shake your head amused by the everpresent male preoccupation with size. "How tall was you father?" It is a painful matter, and you press your cheek into his chest hiding your eyes. "The man my mother was married to was very tall, he believed he had Numenorean blood in him. My mother was small and blonde though, she was Rohirrim." You cannot believe you have never discussed it before. "Your mother's husband," the King slowly repeats. You feel safe and warm in his embrace, the tips of his fingers slowly caressing your spine, and it does not hurt to speak of the past.

"My grandmother brought me up, till I was of fertile age and they took me back to marry me out as a leverage in his trading negotiations," you recall with an unpleasant smile, "little did they know that by then my grandmother taught me to harvest and brew some of those herbs I used to take when we just met, my Lord." He nods, "The small white flowers." "She called them Maiden's Tear. They keep the body child-like, with no possibility to conceive a babe. White flowers to save maidens from tears of being given to a man, as she used to say."

He lifts you chin with his finger and peers into your eyes. "Have they given you to a man then, kurdu? Were you promised to a man?" His voice is possessive, ancient instinct of protecting his mate rumbling in his chest. You smile and kiss the tip of his finger. "None wanted me. They would come with their mothers and sisters, have wine with my mother, and then never come back." You suddenly find it humourous, although for many years the humiliation of being rejected like a rotten apple would sting. "Once I overheard a young man shouting at his mother for forcing him to come to our house. He said that no trading agreement with my father would make him marry me." The King hikes up his brows and looks at your in confusion at why you find it comical. You laugh even louder. "He said I was so sickly that he would be afraid to bed me in fear of breaking me in half."

The King joins your merriment and shakes his head, "And yet you are withstanding bedding a Dwarf. We are not delicate creatures." "You are when needed," you say lovingly and put your cheek back on his beating heart.

"I was not sickly actually, just small. And the hair of course," he picks up a curl and twists it around his finger. "I have seen this colour on Dwarves, but I do not believe I have seen Men with such flaming strands." "It is just like a carrot, I hated it as a child." He takes a handful of it and smiles. "It is beautiful," his voice is sincere and the candidness of his praise makes you smile and nuzzle into him. He admires it for a bit more, "Like fire when you burn good dry wood. Warm but not dangerous." "I started loving it when my grandmother told me that such was the colour of the hair that her sister's husband had, a man from far away lands, lost in seas and cast ashore in Enedwaith where we lived."

The King is considering the story and then cocks his brow. "Oh?" "Yes, indeed. My mother had brothers and sisters, who all were tall and stout. She was small and lithe. All my brothers and sisters had dark hair and were tall and strong. And then one day my grandmother said, "Like mother, like daughter". So you see, my Lord, I really do not know whether my father was tall."

The silence hangs in the room, and then the King asks, "Like mother, like daughter?" Of course, that is what caught the attention of the possessive Dwarf in this story. "I am nothing like my mother," you assert and lift your face to him. "What were we talking about before all this foul past of my family?" "Our babe," he smiles wider, "our son, kurdu."

"I can only judge by rabbits," the Kings lifts his brows, "but if you breed two different rabbits than the litter receives a third of all the strong qualities, such as darker fur and longer ears, which is why I assumed that we have to wait sixteen months for him to arrive, your dark hair and tanned skin obviously being stronger than my pale skin and red hair," you are so busy explaining that you miss an amused expression on the King's face. "Rabbits?" "I am a midwife, we have to know these things! Rabbits are easy to study. They are available, colourful, have different patterns of spots…" "Yes," the King drawls suggestively, "and?" "And they breed a lot," you smack his chest. He guffaws."I did not expect such childish mirth from you, my Lord. I thought the rabbits' sensualism stops being funny when you turn twelve." He laughs and rolls over you. Pecking your pouting lips, he asks with mischievous glint, "Have you been observing a lot of breeding rabbits, my lady? Oh wait, what was the word you used? Rabbits' sensualism?" You are pretending to try to push him off you, and you both laugh.

"Are you in actuality making a prediction on the future of the heir to the throne of Durin based on rabbits?" "Better rabbits, than nothing. Except my magic, we have nothing to tell us what to expect." The King slides down your body and his face is over your stomach. He places his ear to it and closes his eyes.

"You will not hear anything, my Lord." "Are you certain?" "I am a midwife!" "He is a wondrous occurrence, your knowledge might be lacking." "He is inside me and I can hear his heartbeat with my magic." The King does not move. "What are you doing, my Lord?" "I am having a conversation with my son," his lips are twitching in futile attempts to control a smile bursting out of him. "Then you are several inches too high up my stomach."

A chuckles escapes his lips and he moves lower. "Here?" He presses a kiss on your stomach just below your ribcage. "Lower." "Here?" Another kiss just a bit lower. "No..." He dips his tongue into your belly bottom and swirls it around. The he licks the soft roundness underneath it. "Here?" "Are we still talking about the babe?"

He nuzzles your lower stomach and then suddenly dips his tongue into your curls. You gasp and your hips jerk. He slides his hands under your thighs and spread your legs. You moan and arch your back. "I think that is my new favourite view," he gives a first experimental lick. "You have seen it before, my Lord," you are panting. "But not so close," his long nose brushes your clit when he talks, his breath on your folds, and you whimper. "And again, the smell, the flavour..." Oh Mahal, help me!

He is very, very thorough. His tongue and lips explore your folds, slowly and scrupulously, and then he swirls his tongue around your clit. You cry out and arch your back more. He gently but firmly presses your pelvis into the sheets with his palms. The pressure is building in your sensitive bud, but you want more. "Thorin..." He hums to show that he is listening, and the vibration from his voice sends shocks through your walls. "You can… Both the mouth and the fingers..." Oh mahal, your brain is a mush.

He understands and slips two fingers in you. You wail, not expecting such suddenness. He curls them, massaging the exact spot that he knows brings you pleasure, and sucking on your bundle of nerve. The release floods you, you are clawing at the sheets and screaming his name.

He moves away from you and wipes his beard. "You know how they say "I saw stars", my King?" You own voice sounds strange, raspy and strangled. "Yes," he is smirking. "Thank you, my Lord, I saw stars." He laughs and slides near you at the pillows. You open your eyes and look at him. His cheeks above the black thick beard are flushed, eyes smiling and his lips are pink and swollen. He is beautiful. And all yours. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him. He envelops you in his loving embrace and under the warm caresses of his large warm palms you fall asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I am back to updating this story! After it is done, three of four chapters more I think, I'll go back to revamping "Reaching Thorin", I'm in the mood for some awesome sword and magic action. I'm still considering that AU with neurosurgeon Thorin though... And as per usual, I'm more than open to all your prompts (modern AU or not). Enjoy, my lovelies!**

The King helps you onto the pony, and you wince. His hand clenches on your thigh. "Are you alright, my heart?" You smile mischievously and lean down to him, "I am very, very sore, my Lord." He lowers his eyes but you catch a glint of merriment in the blue and a twitch of lips. "I am perfectly well, my King. I am thrilled to soon meet your friend."

The small procession sets on the road. The day is gloomy, but not too cold. You are wrapped in more furs than necessary, but you are indulging the King. It was the only way to convince him that a pony ride will not harm the babe. He is surprisingly inquisitive. Everything seems to grab his attention and concern, your nourishment, your clothing, whether the water is too cold for washing. You are almost exhausted of his constant involvement and are enjoying the quiet ride while the King is conversing with Balin.

Bofur catches up with you, and you smile to the joyful Dwarf. "Tell me, Master Dwarf, what is the Shire like?" He laughs, "It is like those dolly houses we used to make with Bifur. And the doors on the houses are round. The grass is green and lush, and the neighbours stare at you in disgust." You laugh as well, "Sounds like a fairy tale." "You will love it, my lady. Master Baggins is going to be full of beans, pillaging his pantries, fussing around!.." You chuckle and then a thought comes.

"You were making dollhouses, Master Dwarf, was it in Ered Luin?" "Aye, and before the dragon too, in Erebor. Me brother and I were famous," you smile at his boisterous attitude, "You know those birds when you pull and it flaps and flies? We were jolly good with those! And the wee miners, you turn a key and they dig." "Is that what Dwarven children play with?" You tell yourself not to look too interested. "It is if their parents have deep pockets." You do visit many Dwarven houses as a healer and a midwife, but Bofur is right, they are mostly not too well-off. There are dolls and wooden swords, but nothing too intricate. In the few wealthy families you have seen you do not seem to recall any toys. Weapons and crafts, but no toys.

You think of your sword, Mudikh. In your first winter of Erebor, when the fight started you were in the halls of the Lonely Mountain. You arrived with a group of merchants bringing furs to the Erebor Halls, and while your companions were absorbed in heated negotiations, you were offered to be shown around. Accompanied by a mannerly servant, you were wandering through the guest parlours, when the King Under the Mountain stepped from a shadowy passage. You had not seen him for a month by then, and you found it hard to breathe. By then you had accepted your infatuation with the grim King and with a certain degree of self degrading sarcasm were suffering in silence.

Your heart was beating painfully, when he bestowed you a gracious bow. He motioned the servant to leave and gestured inviting you to join him on his walk. "Honourable healer, it is an honour to see you in my house." His low velvet voice was carrying a hidden smirk. You tensed from the territorial connotation. You felt as if you were intruding. Then why to invite you to walk with him? You proceeded on, moving through splendorous halls and passages, in silence. His arms behind his back, he walked slowly. Soon, you forgot the tension of his presence, as the magnificent foyers of Erebor were opening in front of your eyes. You entered a large hall, walls decorated with weapons and armour, and you froze at the door step. Swords, axes, shields, bows, the spectacle was majestic and terrifying. You stepped to a smaller table by the wall and looked down. The weapons were smaller and looked like you could actually lift some of them. He stopped near you, and you felt shivers run down your back. Keeping your voice even, you asked politely, "Are these weapons for a maiden, my Lord?" He smirked and looked at you sideways.

"These are weapons for a child," he picked up a sword and turned to you. "Try it." You shied away. "I could not." The sword was beautiful, blade wide, of traditional Dwarven shape, with the narrower forte, short stable cross-guard, the pommel's shape reminiscent of a crystal, hexagonal cross-section. He lifted his brow and just held it on his large palm. You enveloped your fingers around the grip. The weight and balance were perfect, and you gave it a twirl. His brows hiked up. "Do you wield a sword, honourable healer?" His voice sounded lower and raspier than usual. "I travel a lot, my Lord, I have to be capable to protect myself." You held the blade horizontally and followed the fuller with the tips of your fingers. The King exhaled sharply. "It is Mudikh, my first sword," your fingers froze on the cold metal. "I was given it when I was twenty, half battle-ready age." You sometimes forgot the life span difference between your races, and shortly wondered how old he was. You looked at the blade in your hands and then in the suddenly warm, mesmerizing eyes of the King. The silent moment stretched, and you felt the sword trembling in your hands.

The booming roar of the alarm bell thundered through the stone walls. Loud voices rang in the passages, and you heard the stomping of many feet on the floor. A servant rushed in the hall and the Kind instinctively stepped in front of you, shielding you. The panicked scream in Khuzdul burst out of the gasping Dwarf, "My Lord, the front gate is under attack!"

The King dashed to the exit of the hall but halted and looked around, "Take the sword! There will be no other weapon for you here. Return to the guest parlour," you nodded and took a better grip on the hilt. You saw a second of hesitation in his eyes, and then he was gone.

After the victory, Dwalin accompanied you back to your infirmary in Dale. Most of the wounded were brought there, the epicenter of the battle being closer to the city than to the mountain. The sword was still in the scabbard on your belt, after so many days of fighting you could not remember not having its weight pressed to your hip. You took off the armour, tore off the blooded clothes and changed into the healer's robe. The sword on your bed, you allowed yourself a moment of sentimentality and enveloped its now so familiar grip with your fingers. It was like holding a hand of a friend. You imagined a younger Thorin, the same wide and strong palms, just smaller, wielding the blade, and you felt like you were bidding farewell to a hope of those hands ever holding yours.

When you returned to the infirmary you carried Mudikh with you. Dwalin was sitting on one of the cots, his left shoulder blooded and drooping. You knew the healer attending to him to be skilled and knowledgeable, and you felt reassured. "I am returning to my proper duties, Master Dwarf," he smirked at your joke. "No more unsuited usage for these hands. Would you be so kind as to return this sword to the King? It accidentally came into my possession in the heat of the fight." "Aye, that I have noticed," the menacing Dwarf gave you a crooked smile again, "Have not seen this shrub pruner in years. Since he was a wee lad," you tried not to imagine a child Thorin and failed. "He said he'd be honoured if you kept it. And that he hoped you would never have to use it again."

You are thinking of a dark curled youngling that you always imagined the King to be as a child and of all the small weapons you saw on that table that memorable day. The younger Thorin in your mind is a headstrong, volatile child, isolated and lonely. Will your son yield his first steel sword when he is ten? With a lifespan of probably a hundred and fifty years, will he spend most of this time training and fighting? You momentarily think that the King is right and your human blood is a flaw in your son's composition, making him less apt in the cruel and rigid world of life in Erebor. Will he be less respected for the softness and fragility that you will bequeath to him? Will you try to impart to him your irenic attitude, your values of compassion and respect for every living being, thus putting him in danger of seeming weak and deficient? Or will you let his father and older Dwarves shape and form your son's outlook? You are certain that all of the upbringing he will receive then will consist of expurgating anything that he would inherit from the line of Men and Women that brought you into this world.

The question of your magic troubles you all the more. You remember the first surges of it as your first memories, never separate from you, always in the shadows of your consciousness. You also know that you have never heard of any other Men possessing the gift of wizardry in this world, the Isari Counsel being the exception. You have met Gandalf the Grey once, and you know that the golden glow that you feel pulsating in your blood is not the same magic of Maiar that he yields. The long conversation you had with him is hard to forget and painful to remember. When bidding him a farewell, you swore to keep your magic as concealed as circumstances were ever to allow.

Will your son bear the same burden and the same blessing as you? The magic protects you, shields you, but it also flares uncontrollably, seemingly making its own decisions. When anger, fear or passion overflow you, you feel something of a fractious temper in the golden glow. It rushes and swirls, and glasses jingle on tables, curtains flutter and sizzling golden sparkles run through your curls. You have carried your magic through this world for more than thirty years, and you still feel as if you are clutching in your hand a leash of a very temperamental beast.

You wrap your arm around your middle and frown. "Are you alright, mi'lady?" You forgot that Bofur is riding near you. "Yes, Master Dwarf, quite alright." "You went all off colour just now. Should we stop for a jiffy?" You have no time to answer as he yells to Bombur, "Hey brother, we need a lull." You see the King turning around in his saddle and you try to stop Bofur. "Honestly, there is no need…" But the procession is already slowing down, and you see the King jump off his pony.

He helps you to dismount, and you are suddenly surrounded by worried faces. Bofur is looking down from his bay, Balin is surveying your face, Oin is approaching no doubt to offer his healer's expertise. The King has placed his hands on your shoulders and is peering into your eyes. "I am well," you feel embarrassed and your cheeks are burning. Never before have you allowed yourself to show any weakness or less perseverance that others in the King's company. Now you are suddenly treated as a butterfly wing. "I think we all need to stretch our legs," you are utterly surprised to hear that even Gloin expresses his concern and more so tries to preserve your dignity by coming up with an excuse for a stop. Out of all the King's closest companions you have the least cordial relationships with the dour Dwarf.

Everyone is moving around, a small collection of boulders is found on the side of the road, food is taken out of saddle bags. The King spreads his cloak on one of the large rocks, and you are seated, cheese and bread shoved into your hands. The frown on his face is almost amusing. You eat and drink cider obediently, under his watchful eye. Everyone else soon forgets the reason for the picnic and loud merry conversations erupt in jesting and laughter. You finish your food and get up. Before the Dwarves start rising, you motion them to stay seated. "I just want to walk a little bit," the King is already on his feet and offers you his looped arm.

You walk silently away from the road, and as soon as the bushes conceal you from the company he stops and turns you to face him. "What is wrong? Are you well, kurdu?" His face is panicked, and you laugh. "You have to restrain your worrying, my Lord. I just went slightly pale, which is natural with my complexion, and you stopped the whole cortege and prolonged our travel." "Why did you pale? Were you faint?" You curse the Dwarven stubbornness. He always only hears what he wants. "Thorin, you have to listen to me," you place a pacifying palm on his chest. "I am as healthy as it gets. I am not ailing, weak, fragile or prone to fainting spells. If anything, I feel better than ever. I'm hungry all the time and my other urges are on the rise," you curl your fingers and give his chest a bit of a playful scratching, and he finally smirks, "I definitely do not require additional care." He nods, but you doubt that the message settled in his mind. You will have to endure this despotic overbearing protectiveness for a while more.

"Now, could we please continue our trip, my Lord? I am anxious to meet your miraculous hobbit!" He laughs, "Master Baggins is all that." "So it seems. All I hear about these days from all your warriors is the courage and the wit of the said hobbit. How capable he showed himself to be in your quest, how intelligent and resourceful, his courage at the battlefield, his wonderful preserves and pipe-weed..." "That is probably enough complimenting the hobbit," the King rumbles, and you cannot believe it. Jealousy now, to his friend and battle comrade? You inhale to express your indignation, but then you see that his eyes are sparkling with mirth and his lips twitch. "Oh you!..." You smack his shoulder, and he guffaws. Then he pulls you into a thorough lascivious kiss. After a few minutes, slightly dazed and disheveled you look at him, "No jealousy towards the hobbit then, my Lord? Customarily I feel that your possessiveness spreads even on furniture I sit on, but you are not suspicious of the hobbit who is supposedly rather dashing and charming?" "There is nothing dashing about Master Baggins, zundush," the King kisses the tip of your nose. "Besides, I know you well. You are oh so fond of gruffy and cantankerous men, hardly the qualities innate in a hobbit." You wrap your arms around his neck again. "It is true, I'm very fond of gruffy, cantankerous, conceited, brutish..." He doesn't let you finish, his lips on yours again.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This one is sappy and fluffy, and very demure. Couple more, maybe three, probably rather smutty (I feel they do need to christen the bed in the Bag End:), and this story will be over! Enjoy!**

When you arrive at the door of Master Bilbo Baggins, it is late and dark, and you are grateful that you are wrapped in several cloaks. The March air is cold, and a sharp wind is picking up. You predict a stormy night. The more inviting it makes the warm light in the two round windows on the sides of the merry green door. You have seen hobbit houses before, but you smile as Mr. Baggins is dwelling in an epitome of the comfort and respectability his race is so fond of. Even in the twilight, you can see that the round door is clean and freshly painted, a neat mailbox, a bench no doubt for enjoying a pipe on a warm Summer evening, and bird feeders are adorning the front lawn.

The King dismounts and helps you down. You give him your hand and in a few decisive strides he walks up the low stone stairs leading to the entrance and gives the door three booming knocks. You hear other Dwarves laughing behind you at some unknown joke, and then the door opens, and the hobbit is presented to your eyes. He is couple inches shorter than you, clad in a bright green velvet jacket. He sees the King and a smile blooms on his face.

"Thorin!" He rushes and hugs the King. You have never before seen anyone taking such liberties with the King Under the Mountain, and you are even more surprised when the embrace is returned with fervour, Thorin clapping his hand on the hobbit's back. "Master Baggins," the King's voice rumbles warmly and he steps back, open gleeful smile on his face. "Allow me to present my Queen, Lady Zundushinh," the hobbit turns to you and the bright grey eyes widen. You smile and give him your hand, "Be so kind and call me Wren, Master Baggins. I am still not used to the titles the King has awarded me with." The hobbit takes your hand, and you give his a vigorous shake.

It seems to stir him out of his stupour, and he gives you a low bow. "At your service, my lady." Then he hastily steps back. "Please, please, do come in, I have just put the kettle on," you follow the King inside and at that moment other Dwarves are finally by the door. A loud happy roar erupts, and the hobbit is swept into Bofur's bear hug. Others join, clapping Master Baggins on the back, everyone talking at the same time. They comment on the golden buttons on the waistcoat, on the allegedly rounder waist, on the still lacking beard. The muttering hobbit is towed in the hall, and you hear the King chuckle. You are looking around, while the King is helping you with your cloak.

The hall with the splendid carpet on the floor, chairs and chests cluttering but not spoiling the passage, everything is cozy and taken care of. The King hangs your cloak on a peg and turns to the increasingly disheveled hobbit. The Dwarves are still talking loudly, and he has to raise his voice, "Master Baggins, how is that kettle coming along?" The hobbit jumps up and starts mumbling, "Where are my manners indeed? Please, please, do come in. I believe you know the way," everyone scramble in a dining room with a crackling fire, and Thorin moves a chair for you. Master Baggins dashes to the pantries, and thus the feast begins.

Chickens, cheese, rolls and buns, cakes, jam, scones with butter, mugs with beer and tea for you, a bit of wine and a lot of salad, the food is passed around the table, conversation loud and merry, and you throw an occasional glimpse at the hobbit. More often than not you are met with a no less cautious stare from him. When caught, he makes a funny motion with his nose and looks at the ceiling. He is immensely entertaining, and you feel very curious. One thing is endlessly unclear. How did it ever happen that he agreed on an adventure with thirteen Dwarves and a wizard that involved travelling through half of the world, a dragon and apparently no handkerchief?

He seems as ordinary of a hobbit as any you have met before. The same solid and respectable character, slight peevishness, healthy appetite and yet, there he is, reminiscing of the travels and sword fights, asking after his battle comrades, recollecting Mirkwood and Erebor. You eat and drink, then everyone moves into a sitting room, with another cozy fireplace, and the musical instruments are taken out. The King's velvet voice is enveloping you, and you do not notice how you drift away.

You wake up in one of the best beds you have ever slept in and stretch. You are only dressed in your drawers and an undertunic. You smirk at your King's proficiency in divesting you of your clothes, undoubtedly acquired over the years. You find an adjoint bathroom, and after a quick rinse you put on fresh clothes. You take a bit longer in front of a mirror, surveying your profile, trying to see any difference. Your stomach seems as flat as it was before, and you sigh.

The noise of eight Dwarves and a hobbit definitely comes from one of the sitting rooms, and you assume it is elevenses time. The delicious smell of seed cake and scones is tickling your nose, and your feet carry you faster.

After the prolonged meal the company spreads around the Bag End, chatting and still chewing some of the hobbit's delicacies. He is inconspicuously trying to avoid crumbs on the carpets and dashes between them with saucers and napkins. His efforts are fruitless. You curl up in a large soft armchair and cannot hold back a yawn.

"Are you somnolent, my Queen?" the King is circling the chair and stops in front of you. "The gloomy weather seems to make me so." You smile. "And perhaps all this savoury food. No wonder hobbits never want to move anywhere, a stomach full of their cakes makes you as lazy as a snake on a sunny patch of a swamp." He gives you a small warm smile. "Except our gracious host, apparently. He crossed the world with you, my melhekh." "It was not me whom he was following..."

"It was that mad old wizard," you hear the hobbit's voice from the entrance to the room. You peek from behind the side of the chair. He is smiling and still manages to look a bit grumpy. You motion him to a chair in front of you. He settles, bobbing on it several times, adjusting the cushions underneath him, and yet again you wonder what compelled him all those years ago to pack his bag and join the Dwarves' quest.

The King is standing and his eyes survey the hobbit. "How are you faring, my friend?" "Quite alright, quite alright, Thorin. I lost all respect from my neighbours and my house was almost auctioned while I was gone, but otherwise quite alright." "It was eleven years ago, Master Baggins," the King smirks. "And I still haven't gotten some of my silver spoons back." "I am certain whatever you brought back, my friend, has covered your expenses," a glint of mischievous smile is hiding in your King's eyes.

You lift your eyes and see short Elven blade hung above the mantel. "Is that the Sting, Master Baggins?" "Indeed it is," he gets up and takes it off. He caresses the blade and the hilt with his fingertips. "Would you be so generous…?" You stretch your hand and he glances at the King. The corner of Thorin's lips twitch, but he is still and quiet. He knows better than attempting to show any authority over such actions of yours. The cold grip lies on your hand, and you lunge in a mocking attack and thrust the blade. The hobbit jumps up and squeaks. The King guffaws.

"It is a fine sword, Master Baggins," you return it in his hands and he is staring at you. "I was informed it is most likely a letter opener," he sounds peevish. "A letter opener would not slay a great spider in Greenwood the Great. You do remember the Spawn of Ungoliant, don't you Master Hobbit?" He shivers and a comical disgust contorts his face. "Nasty business that was," he takes out his pipe and starts filling it. The comfortable silence stretches, and you are looking at the flames in the fire.

The white flavourful smell fills the room, and suddenly a wave of nausea overcomes you. You rush in the nearest bathroom and lose all the food you so joyfully consumed. You are panting and sink on the floor. Well, that was to be expected. Something was bound to cause aversion. The smoke indeed was thick and sweet smelling. You cringe. The scent will be hard to forget.

You rinse your mouth and refresh your face. You come back to the sitting room and see that the window is open, and the hobbit is running around the room waving a large sheet of parchment, trying to clear the air. The King is sitting in his chair, tapping his foot, troubled. He jumps up when you enter. "I am alright, my Lord. The dizziness is gone. And Master Baggins, please, I apologise for the disturbance." "Nothing, nothing to apologise for, my lady, I should have asked, so used to it, haven't even realized," he is still dashing around the room, the white sheet flailing. "I beg you, Master Baggins, please be seated." All three of you settle down again. The hobbit moves a small stool for himself and seems rather uncomfortable perched up on its hard seat.

"Bungo," he suddenly utters. "Pardon?" He has an innocent expression on his face. "Bungo, my father's name. A very respectable name I have to tell you. In case you are looking for names," you gasp and stare at him. His face is schooled in a neutral expression, but he is definitely trying very hard to keep a grin down. "I am not naming an heir of the throne of Durin Bungo." The King is also pressing his lips together in a futile attempt to confine a smile. "Just a thought," the hobbit gives you a sideways glance and you start laughing.

"You are quite something, aren't you Master Baggins?" "Please, call me Bilbo." You stretch your hand and he gently presses your fingers. The King pats your shoulder and leaves the room. You hear him addressing Balin in the corridor. You lean back in the chair and stare at the fire again. The hobbit moves to the opposite armchair and you feel his eyes on you.

"We are quite a pair, aren't we Master Baggins?" You look into the sharp grey eyes, "A hobbit and a woman of Men in the company of Thorin Oakenshield." He hums in agreement. Suddenly he says, "When I was leaving Hobbiton, Gandalf the Grey told me that I would never be the same again. And he was right. But I returned to where I belonged, and though I have changed, I still feel that this is my place." You smile and he continues. "When the Battle of the Five Armies was over they brought me to the King Under the Mountain," his face darkens. You do not know everything that transpired before the battle but you suspect that neither of the two men likes to think about the conflict between them, "they were certain he would not live." You nod and think of the white scar on the King's side, under the eighth rib. A thick Orc arrow pierced his body and out of all the wounds he received that day that one was bound to be mortal. An irrational fear still chills your spine when you touch it after all these years. Then you press your cheek into the warm skin and repeat to yourself over and over again that he lived, and he is here, and he is with you.

"And then he recovered and Erebor was theirs finally," the more joyful memories return to the hobbit. "And they were feasting for months, I do not how I survived, and I'm a hobbit, and we are jolly fond of food and good ale, my lady." You chuckle. "But the burden was still there. The city to rebuild, the Kingdom to restore, no time to enjoy his home," he is self-consciously rubbing his thumbs on the undersides of his braces, "I supposed he just felt that he had to rise to the glory of his grandfather and father… But that is no way to live, you know…" He is suddenly bashful and shifting in his chair. You lift your brows encouragingly. "One cannot carry the responsibility for so many." You smile sadly. "One has to if one is a King." He nods solemnly but then his face lights up. "It is good to see him happy at last. Lighter, less weighed down," he peeks you from under his curly bangs. "Are you giving me your blessing, Master Hobbit?"

He blushes and clears his throat uncomfortably. You laugh and straighten up in your chair, "I am honoured to finally have met you, Master Hobbit." He blushes even more furiously and mumbles, "The honour is all mine, my lady."

The day passes in lazy conversations and more food. You try to avoid the smoke ever clouding around the Dwarves as you have prohibited the King of stopping his companions from smoking. You feel you would have to provide an explanation for such a sudden and drastic demand, and you just choose to take a small walk. The weather is bleak but the night rain stopped. Balin offers his companionship, and you gladly accept it.

He seems preoccupied and you ask of his frowned face and silence. "Allow me some liberty to inquire of your health, my lady," he gives you an acute sideways glance. "I am quite well, Master Balin." "Are you content with you life in Erebor, then, my lady?" You suspect that the Dwarf is under some erroneous impression that you are distressed. "Indeed I am, Master Balin." "With the upcoming celebrations I presume you must be rather engaged and somewhat weary." Apparently, the poor Dwarf is trying to delicately ask you if you are bedraggled from the wedding preparations, and distraught and apprehensive regarding your future role as the Queen. "I am immensely contented these days, my dear sir." He sighs and stops.

Picking up your hand, he decides on a more direct approach. "I have noticed a certain pensiveness in you, my lady. And you seem more delicate these days, the stop on the road, longer sleep," he coughs in uneasiness, "please, do not condemn an old Dwarf for worrying..." You place a hand on his forearm and smile. "Master Balin, I am grateful for your concern, it warms up my heart," he peers at you. And suddenly you cannot control an urge. You are certain that the King will forgive you for it.

"I am well and happy, my dear sir, quite more than ever before, to be honest. The only thing delicate these days is my position," you bite your lip and wait. He frowns and then gasps and step back. "Oh my..." His eyes are shining, and he grabs your hands with a swiftness that always surprises you in the old warrior. "That is the happiest of news!" You smile to each other and on impulse you lean in and kiss a bearded cheek. He blushes and looks endlessly pleased. "No wonder the King demanded to return to Erebor tomorrow at dawn." That despot!


	8. Chapter 8

You wake up with a jerk in the bed and understand that you have fallen asleep after dinner again. You vaguely remember the music, the clarinets, the King taking out his harp, but then the fog of sweet sleep overcame you. You are covered with a warm comforter, in your undergarments, surrounded by fresh luscious linen and fluffy pillows. All your senses are content, and you nest deeper in the beddings. It is dark, and you assume that it is just after a midnight. You are also alone.

You turn on the other side, and close your eyes again, but the sleep does not come. The previous day's conversation with the hobbit comes to mind. You yourself remember the grim, burdened King you met in your first winter in Erebor.

It is snowing, the ice has settled on the River Running, and Thea rushes into your room. "Wren, I found you a way into the Lonely Mountain," she is excited and bounces on her feet. You often so happily think that you are endlessly fortunate to have a friend who shares your curiosity towards the Dwarven nation. "The ale merchants are going to the Dwarven city next week, one of them is ailing, or will be ailing if I convince him so, and they will need a healer with them. How lucky they are that you are willing to go!" You laugh and hug your ever so restless friend.

You arrived in Dale two years after the Battle of Five Armies, the city is in the middle of renovations, there is still a lot to be done. The residents are optimistic, building their future prosperity, weddings happen almost every month, more and more children are born. The trade with the Lonely Mountain and Esgaroth is blooming, and sometimes you even see the Silvan Elves from the Realm of King Thranduil in the streets of the city. Local maidens are infatuated with the Elves, their silver hair and stunning elegant faces, light step and melodic voices. Sometimes you think that you and Thea are the only two women in the city who are more interested in the stout wide-shouldered Dwarves than in the lithe tall Elves. Thea in her pursuit of carnal diversity, you out of curiosity towards the ancient and secluded culture, you two often spend your evenings discussing and speculating. You share knowledge and gossip, and you often have to shush Thea's racy fantasies.

"I once spent two hours watching a Dwarf hammering in a forge," she is gesturing animatedly, and you hide your face in a pillow, "Maiar help me, the arms, and the shoulders, and the chest!" She is outlining the muscular shapes in the air. You are giggling. "What was he forging?" "What does it matter?! He went on for two hours! Can you imagine the stamina! And the size of the hammer!" You roar with laughter. "Speaking about being on the anvil!" "You are hopeless!" "Tell me you are not curious!" You keep on laughing and covering your face with the pillow. "Honestly, Thea, my mind does not reside below my waist. It is a proud ancient race, can you imagine the richness of their knowledge? Their magic?" She quiets down, but you doubt she is thinking about the famous Erebor Library. The rumours are that it has not suffered much damage during the reign of the dragon, and sometimes in your dreams you see some indefinite images of halls filled with bookshelves, reaching up, to the ceiling so high that it is lost in the shadows. "And no, I'm not curious, Thea. Men are the last thing on my mind."

You are lying, but only slightly. You are certainly noticing males around you, Men, Elves and Dwarves, but nothing stirs in you. You sometimes think you have had your share of fleshly pleasures, and that perhaps you are just cold. You rarely think of your first and only lover, and even when your body requires some release, your fantasies involve a vague, rather ethereal male. Eyes, perhaps green, long lean body, sensitive hands… You notice men, and sometimes you even feel a tinge of attraction, but then some sort of cold barrier pushes you away even from a slight thought of closeness. You are a midwife, and you rationally assume that you are just not very libidinous. You accept that biological drive makes you acknowledge a potential mate and a father for your children, but your heart and pudendum remain unaffected.

You enter Erebor with a group of merchants, and you cannot seem to take a full breath. It is magnificent, from the Front Gate, along a wide paved road, through the Erebor Gate carved in the stone flesh of the mountain, to the seemingly endless halls you enter through it. The statues of the Dwarves of the Past on either side of the wide passage are menacing and glorious. You cannot stop turning your head, afraid to miss something. The merchant who is supposedly ailing and does indeed look rather pale, though probably from the lack of sleep caused by Thea's convincing arguments, is whispering into your ear, "They will only let us into the guest parlours, but they say that the whole mountain is one big city. And there are gold mines underneath it."

Dwarven treasures do not interest you. Everyone knows of their unequalable craft in working with metals and stones, and you have seen some of the jewels. The Dwarven women who are, though very rarely, seen in the streets of Dale are always adorned with exquisite ornaments. You on the other hand, if ever you were asked, would be more interested in their weaponry. You do possess certain skill with a sword, early in life having realized that you will need to be able to protect yourself on the road. But the broad Dwarven blades are not the ones you are interested in. You are harbouring an ambitious dream of perhaps some day commissioning a mithril surgery tool. The untarnishable, endlessly hard but light, it would make a perfect thin blade for cutting infected flesh and when heated it would cleanse and close the incision.

Your horses are taken to be fed and rest, and the merchants are greeted by an older, white bearded Dwarf. Negotiations with sampling and bargaining start, and you know you have a few hours to look around. The hall you are in is large and cold, and you see two exits, one on either side. You choose a passage on your right and take a few tentative steps up. At the end of the staircase with no rails you see what seems to be a sunlit balcony. You walk there and step out. You breath hitches. You are on an a terrace on the Southern wall of Erebor, the road between the Front and Erebor Gates in front of your eyes. You look up and see a seemingly never-ending face of the Lonely Mountain. There are numerous balconies and openings in it, and its cap disappears in the white clouds.

You return to the hall and this time you go left, to the stairs going down. A few Dwarves and Men pass you, and you keep a preoccupied and haughty face. You probably should not be wandering around but you cannot seem to reign your curiosity. At some point you end up in some sort of trading chamber, where Dwarves and Men are weighing precious stones on tiny precise scales, sign contracts and negotiate. You quickly withdraw and choose a different passage.

You are not lost, but you are certain that you have long time ago reached the part of the castle where visitors such as yourself should not be under any circumstances. The halls are becoming increasingly grandiose, more and more valuable items are displayed on the tables and in the niches in the walls, and more often you catch a glimpse of mithril and gold decorating walls. You are momentarily considering turning around when you see a set of large wooden doors. You tell yourself that it will be the last insolence you are executing against the Durin's Folk and cautiously push a heavy leaf. You will have a peek and then you will return to your companions. You are harbouring a hope that it is the Library.

It is not. It is yet another hall, and you feel disappointed. By now you are satiated with the Dwarven boisterous self-glorification and wealth demonstration to the point of nausea. You turn around when you hear a low voice coming from inside of the hall. "What are you doing here?" Caught in the act! You tense and holding your breath you step inside.

He is tall for a Dwarf, imposing, wide heavy body, and the most glorious mane of dark hair you have ever seen in your life. Dark brows are drawn together in a menacing frown, clad in dark blue garments, he is breathtaking. The first thought in your head is "Damn it, Thea, you and your salacious whispers and hints." You are surprised that you are blushing. And not from the embarrassment of being caught trespassing, but from scorching heat spreading through your body. His eyes are blue and cold, and your hands begin to shake. "I apologise, honorable Dwarf, but I'm lost. I have arrived with the group of merchants from Dale and seem to have lost my way in the splendid halls of Erebor."

"You are rather far from the guest parlours," his tone is disdainful, and you cringe. "I apologise again for my intrusion, my Lord," he is obviously of noble blood, probably even a Dwarf leader of sorts. Despite the silver strands in his hair, he looks rather young, and you think that he probably moves with an agility and grace of a mountain lion. And then you halt in shock from your own thoughts.

What surprises you even more in your unprecedented infatuation with a man you see for the first time in your life, a Dwarf no less, having renounced any sort of affiliation with the opposite sex, is the fact that you can clearly see that he is looking at you with mistrust and even animosity. You can easily imagine him asking you to empty your pockets. "I will call a servant to walk you back to your companions," he sounds so peevish that you feel like giving him a snarky retort. You restrain yourself and graciously thank him.

He steps to the door and you realize that he is keeping an eye on you. That is endlessly insulting but you pacify yourself reminding yourself that you are indeed where you should not be and you are also not a Dwarf. Dwarven mistrust to any other race is notorious. You put your arms behind your back and rock on your heels. He looks even more cantankerous than before. He gives you a scornful look and his nostrils flare, and then the most unexpected thing happens.

A golden sparkle of your magic cracks in your curled up fist and runs through your arm, through your shoulder, along your neck and into your curls, lifting the smaller runaway strands in a copper halo around your head. You braids bounce of your shoulders, and suddenly a cold blade is pressed to your throat. Your eyes widen, and the two of you are suspended in the intense silence of the stone hall.

Three thoughts are swirling in your panicked mind. First, that you are positively demented. Because you find his high-strung, terrifying stance endlessly arousing. For the first time in years you feel your inner walls clench painfully and insurgent liquid heat floods your lower stomach.

Secondly, you notice that the blade is of the Elvish craft. It is curved, single edged, gleaming and majestic. The third thought is the direct consequence of the second. You are standing in front of Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain. And the sword pressed to your neck is Orcrist, the Orc-cleaver.

You have heard of the Dwarven King wielding an Elven blade, many not believing that the proud Dwarf would relinquish his enmity and bitterness towards the Elves and choose a weapon of their making. The proof that they are wrong is biting into your throat.

"My Lord, I do not mean any harm," your voice is weak. You sincerely hope that it is out of fear and not the breathiness of arousal. He is scanning your body, and it feels as if flames are licking your skin. "What was it?" "Magic," it is easier just to be honest. Whatever the Istari told you, that is not the time for being ambiguous and unclear. Your head might be chopped off by an enraged and apprehensive Dwarf at any moment. "It was an accident, I do not know what happened. It does it sometimes," you are muttering. He stares in your eyes, and whatever he sees in them makes him lower the sword.

"Who are you?" "Wren. Filegethiel. Both names are acceptable. I am a healer in Dale." "What does a simple healer from Dale have to do with magic?" You feel slightly offended. Who said that you are a simple healer? You are, but isn't he too fast to judge? "I was born with it. It is weak, just sparks mostly." You feel you should reassure him. Your head might still get separated from your torso. "Like fireworks?" You again doubt your sanity for a moment as you think that you just saw his lips twitch in a ghost of a smile. You tell yourself you are delusional. You are sure this face never smiles. "Yes, sometimes it can shake a cup or a goblet, but not more than that." "And you do not seem to be in much control over it, honourable healer," his voice is sarcastic and the respectful moniker sounds like mockery. You huff and probably look like a petulant child.

Suddenly his face darkens and he moves closer to you. You gasp and freeze. He is looking at your neck, "Forgive me, I seemed to have drawn blood." Your hand flies to the throat. You have not even felt anything. You look at the tiny red stain on your fingers. "It is alright, I am sure I would have panicked too if something exploded in front of me." He is staring at you in disbelief. "Not that you panicked. You did not. You reacted very bravely. Dashingly. Splendidly." Oh, shut up, Wren!

You are wrong. This face can smile. And this smile is the most beautiful thing you have seen in your life. The blue eyes sparkle, thick black lashes hide the irises, little wrinkles run from the corners of his eyes. "You are an odd little creature, honourable healer." You swallow from the fluttering that his low rumble sends through your chest. "Allow me to walk you back to the guest parlours, my lady." Maiar, he can be chivalrous. You can only nod and hope that you will not stumble and embarrass yourself.

You are lying in the large bed in the Bag End and chuckle remembering the trepidation you felt walking through the halls of Erebor beside the King Under the Mountain. The door creaks, and he slips into the room. You stay still, enjoying the spectacle of the King undressing in the moonlight of the bedroom. The buckle clanks, the long velvet waistcoat slides off his delectable shoulders, the rest of outergarments follow, and clad in an undertunic and breeches he slides under the comforter. You turn swiftly and press your body into him. He sharply draws breath and chuckles. "Have you been waiting for me, my heart?" "As always, my Lord."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Being a neat freak I decided that I need to finish "Thorin's Return to Shire" so everything is tidy :) Since he is in the Shire already, there is nowhere the plot can go now. So let's wrap it up and remember, if you are confused how this story fits into the overall Wren and Thorin story arc, check "Thorin's Timeline" on my page.**

The King pulls you closer, soft caresses of his lips heating you up, warmth of his body enveloping you, your hand sliding under the tunic on the hard planes of his stomach. He inhales sharply, and bites your bottom lip gently but playfully. You both are smiling, garments are slowly taken off, hands gliding on skin, exploring as if anew. His black lashes flutter, tenderness in his features, he slightly lifts his torso, supports himself on an elbow. Another hand cups your face, gentle, loving, you wrap your arms around his neck. The incessant fire between you two is there but it is rumbling deep beneath sweetness, affection and reverence slowing you two down.

He is kissing down your body, his tongue delicately circling the peaks of your breasts, and you sigh. His warm palm covers your stomach, and he rubs it with his thumb. You chuckle. He smiles into your skin. The hand slides lower, and he gently dips one finger between your folds. You moan and reach for his length. He slightly moves away. "You tend to be too ardent, my heart. Tonight is to be unhurried," his tone is sensual and slightly teasing. You hum in agreement and place your arms back around his neck. He moves closer again, his lips on your clavicles, beard scratching deliciously.

He is stroking your entrance, and his tongue is drawing soft swirls on your neck. You arch your back and push your head back into the pillows. The first release is slow and sweet. You halt his hand and turn to him. You pull him by his shoulders, and he lowers his weight on you. His length slides into you, and you whisper his name.

The lovemaking is leisurely but measured. Each stroke is a declaration of love, each sign is his name, each moan is yours. You wrap your legs around his waist, his lips are on yours. Bodies intertwined, spirits in perfect harmony, you are moving together, breathing each other, lips and tongues caressing. Climaxes join, blend, soft cries echo in each other. You fall asleep entwined, three hearts beating in peace and unison.

Morning comes, soft sunlight crawls through the curtains, little patches of light moving on the bedding. You open your eyes to see an especially flirtatious sunbeam to settle on the King's long nose. He scrunches it in his sleep and then sneezes. Blue eyes fly open, noble face peevish and utterly offended. You laugh and hide under the comforter. Two large hands catch you and pull you out. The morning lovemaking is more vigorous, with more grabbing and merry guffaws, your deft hands tickling, his white teeth nipping.

"I have a grievance to settle with you, my Lord," you are curled into his side, his upper arm serving you as a pillow. "Indeed?" His eyes are gleaming with mirth. "Have you not told Master Balin that we are leaving today?" "I have, and we are," his tone is soft but determined. You tread carefully. "I understand your consideration, my King, but that was not your initial intention. Were we not to stay for a few days at the Bag End and let Master Baggins prepare for the long journey to Erebor?" "The circumstances changed." The King is becoming tense, you feel argument rising in him.

You sit up and look at him tenderly. "Thorin, I have to ask you to reconsider," you see his jaw clench, "I would like a few days of rest. I would not wish to go back into the saddle just yet." He closes his mouth that he obviously opened to object. You stroke his chest. "Peace and quiet, and the plentiful food of the Shire will be good for the babe."

You see him doubt. The innate Dwarven possessiveness and the dogmatic upbringing push him to hide you deep in the Lower Halls of Erebor, far away from imagined dangers and other's eyes. Nonetheless, the road to the Kingdom Under the Mountain is long, and he is torn. To an even greater extent, you understand that his desire to rush to Erebor is fighting in him with his chivalry and his understanding of a duty of a guest. He cannot push Master Baggins to leave his home before the assigned date. He lowers his head, and you understand that you are staying.

After breakfast that stretches again, food consumed in frightening quantities, conversations loud and laughter abundant, you excuse yourself to go for another walk. This time your host accompanies you. The weather is rainless and only a few merry white clouds are lazily moving in the sky.

You take off the two upper cloaks that the King insisted you put on, his brows stern and eyes blazing. You are folding them to fit into your basket that you borrowed from the gracious hobbit. He is smirking. "That is quite a burdensome endeavour you are partaking, my lady." "You can hardly imagine, Master Baggins." You are grumbling, "Overbearing, despotic, cantankerous..." The hobbit chuckles. "One would assume you should be used to that by now, my lady."

You lift your eyes at him and return his mischievous smile. "How did you survive the authoritativeness of this particular Dwarf during your adventures, Master Baggins? I can so easily imagine," you mimic the King's booming voice, "walk faster, sit there, we are spending the night here, no fire, no, you don't get to decide, no, no supper and you are going inside to talk to a fire breathing dragon!" Bilbo start chuckling and by the end of your drollery he is laughing openly.

You join him and soon you are clinging to each other weak from your frolics. You sit on a boulder by the road, and he is wiping tears from his eyes. "How about," it is his turn to draw his brows together in a replica of the King's scowl and drawl in a raspy voice, "I will let you string along but I will doubt your worth and motives til the very end?" You are clapping in delight. You both guffaw again. "Or," you tense your jaw muscles and give the hobbit an exaggerated heavy look, "I will just sit here very solemn and will be looking at the horizon and will not tell you what troubles me, but you should know it is your fault." The hobbit almost falls of the boulder roaring from laughter. He growls in a surprisingly accurate parody of the King's voice, "The ponies are gone, it is your fault, Bilbo, you believe there are Orcs around, it is your fault, Bilbo, you got lost, it is your fault, Bilbo…" You finish his speech, "You found your way back, it is your fault, Bilbo!" Both of you are in hysterics, tears in your eyes, cheeks hurting. "And the peevishness!" "And the grumpiness!" "And the prejudice!" "And the temper!"

It takes you a few minutes to calm down. He is still chuckling but then gives you a side glance. "It is nice to see the changes, though." He picks up your hand and gently presses it. "Indeed, my lady, it is so wonderful to see the changes." You smile and pat his hand. "Let's go to the market, Bilbo, you have a horde of Dwarves to feed."

The horde, indeed, consumes an inconceivable amount of food, and the next day it takes two Dwarves and a hobbit to carry all the supplies that are purchase again. The day after, three of them accompany Master Baggins to the market. The Shire is buzzing with agitation and, to be honest, indignation from such Dwarf invasion. The Dwarves seem to enjoy the vacation though, Bombur and Bofur cook, music is played abundantly, a game of bowls is set up on the grass.

It is a pleasure to see the King carefree, with rare but sincere smile on his lips, his brigandine forgotten on a chair in the bedroom after three days. Five days after your arrival to the Shire you find yourself taking a walk with him, Spring air warm and fragrant, weather so soft and balmy that even the King does not insist on your being bundled up like a fragile glass vase in a street vendor's cart.

You follow a narrow path swirling between the hills, dipping into valleys, through a small green grove. Your arm is looped through his, and the serenity and cordiality of your companionship warms your heart. His palm is covering your hand on his forearm, fingers gently rubbing your knuckles.

You chuckle. "What is it, my heart?" You love the King's voice, low and velvet, especially when it is coloured with fondness and amusement. "I grew up among the green fields like these, my Lord. Endless green rangelands, once one would step out of the back door of my grandmother's house, they would just stretch for miles. I was used to the grass under my feet, to the rustle of leaves above my head, immense blue sky..." He is listening attentively. You give him a look from a corner of your eye and wonder how a girl from a small village in Enedwaith ended up in the arms of the Dwarven King. "I was always surrounded by herbs drying on a sill, raspberry wine brewing in the cellar, crates of root vegetables," you chuckle again, "something always growing and wilting, leaves, stems, roots, blooms… I have lived so many years on the road, sleeping on the ground, lulled to sleep by forest sounds..."

You place your hand on your stomach. "I do not know why I started this palaver..." The King gives you a soft look. "Because you do not wish to return to the stone cage of Erebor." "No!" You stop in front of him and place your hand on his chest. "No, my King, that is not what I was saying." You lift your eyes at him shyly. "Erebor is my home now, and as cold and unyielding as it seems sometimes, I love it with all my heart and know that it is where I belong." He lowers his lips on yours in a gentle kiss. "Are we still talking about my Kingdom, kurdu?" His eyes are smiling, and you return the expression, "For the most part."

He embraces you, your arms wrapping around his middle. His cheek is pressed to your temple, warm and familiar. And he starts to speak, his voice quiet and unusually hesitant, "Erebor is cold, my heart, and hard lined. And it is tenacious and unforgiving sometimes… But it is staunch and loyal... and will be a good home for our son." You stroke his back with your hand. "I know it will be, my King."

"I have seen the world outside Erebor, the green fields, woods and valleys, sunlit and free, my heart, and I know how the darkness and seclusion of Erebor can seem cruel. The halls were all I have seen as a child, only fireflies on the roofs enlivening the Kingdom Under the Mountain. I do know your sacrifice, kurdu."

You push him away and look into his face, open and vulnerable. "There is no sacrifice, Thorin!" "Would you not prefer to live in a place like the Shire? Merry and simple?" He is not resentful, just melancholy and wistfulness in his tone. "If it were in my nature to seek such life, would I have chosen a prideful Dwarf as my match?" Your hands are caressing his face. "Perhaps you have not preconsidered all the entitlement that accompanies such match." "What of the entitlement of becoming your wife? Have I not agreed to become the Queen of Erebor? I have my duty now. Among others, my responsibility now is to bring the heir to the throne into this world." He presses his forehead to yours.

And then he whispers, "Sometimes I wish I could stay here with you… Give you the life you are more disposed to lead..." "I want to share your life and build my own there, Thorin," you are both silent for a few instants, "And besides, my Lord, would it not be endlessly tedious to stay here and look at the same humdrum green fields and boring round doors till the day we are so spiritless from them that we wither before our term?" He chuckles. "Neither of us is a hobbit, my Lord. To fight, to heal, to rule is our density, and it is in Erebor."

He looks into your eyes. "My wise Queen," you smile and quickly kiss his beloved lips, "time to return to Erebor then."

THE END


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